Least You Got That Right
by May Glenn
Summary: Wee!chesters. Fighting the elements and a Black Dog, Dean's only concern is for Objective One: Keeping Sammy safe. In the aftermath, John almost loses his eldest. T for foul-mouthed Wee!Dean.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: My first foray into Wee!chesters. Sam is three, Dean is seven, but I kept changing my mind as to what ages I wanted them to be and it still kind of shows. Dean's got quite a mouth on him for a seven-year-old, I guess, but I guess that's what happens if you have John Winchester for a father.... I also wanted to show John in tender-loving-mode, which is rare enough but has to happen occasionally. Alternates between Dean POV and John POV. Nothing spectacular, in all, but thought I should post in case anyone can offer any suggestions as to how to improve it. Also unbeta'd (but not un-proofread!), so any mistakes are mine._

_**Disclaimer: Don't own Winchesters or Wee!chesters. Although, if I did, I would give them cookies. **_

Dad was gonna kill him.

Dean groaned and walked a little faster, shouting again: "Sammy!" Even if it was stupid Sammy's stupid freaking fault, Dad would get mad at _him_, Dean knew. Sam was only three—even Dean admitted you had to be an asshole to blame a three-year-old for being stupid.

Even if he was stupid, running off like that, what was he thinking? Did he even know how many ways from Sunday Dad was gonna tan his hide for this? In the middle of freaking winter, in the middle of freaking South Dakota, or North Dakota, wherever they were. Probably without a jacket. Moron. All because he tot he taw a puddy-tat. Probably nothing. Probably a dog or something.

Like a Black Dog.

_Shit_.

"Sammy!"

"Da-da-Dean?" came a small, shivering voice. Dean turned to find Sam huddled between two trees, shaking with cold, his nose red as Rudolph's. The eyes, like Bambi eyes, brightened upon seeing his older brother, and before Dean could go to him, the three-year-old rocketed at him and was wrapped tightly around his middle.

"Whoa, kiddo, where's the fire? Why the hell'd you run off like that?" Dean asked, kneeling before his brother and trying to be gentle despite wanting to throttle him. If Sam wasn't gonna be the death of him someday…

"S-s-saw it, Dean," the sobbing little boy moaned. "Got sc-scared. Did you get it?"

"Uh, yeah," Dean tried. "Yeah, I got it. Ain't gonna bother us no more. No way, José—"

A low growl from behind called Dean's bluff. Sam froze in his arms.

"Sam, run!" Dean cried, literally throwing his little brother in the direction of safety and turning around in time to see a massive black claw slam into him. He went down, but drew the revolver he had nicked from Uncle Bobby's sock drawer. Not feeling any pain yet, just righteous indignation that this bully had just knocked him to his butt in the snow, Dean opened fire. The first shot was wild, and the second one lucky. Then he ran, pushing Sam ahead of him, practically carrying him half the way. But the Black Dog got another one in, dragging him by the ankle in a massive maw, worrying his legs until Dean could turn and fire again. Now much closer to the beast, the third and fourth bullets did real damage and the final two were just unnecessary. But Dean was going to make damn sure.

Dean didn't relish in the kill. He had to find Sam. Find Sam, or he'd be sporting a new asshole whenever he got home. If he ever got home. Nothing, supernatural or otherwise, could scare him more than his own dad. Dean was pretty sure that that what the fear of God was all about.

Dean was once again accosted from out of nowhere, and he gratefully hugged the brown curls to his chest. "Thank Jesus fucking Christ, Sammy. You okay?"

Sam nodded, but said, "Cold."

The little doofus was outside in only a thin hooded sweatshirt that Dean had long ago grown out of. Sighing, Dean shrugged off his own winter coat and dressed his brother in it, shivering in his shirtsleeves.

"Dean got owie!" Sam cried, pointing in astonishment.

For the first time, Dean glanced down at his chest, red through the t-shirt. _Shit_, he thought, but said, "Aw, that's nothin', Sammy. Dad'll take care of me when we get home." _He'll take care of me all right_, Dean groaned inwardly as an afterthought. But that didn't matter quite so much as the shivering wretch that stood before him. "Okay, soldier," Dean said, "Move on out. Let's get you home."

With a push Sam began marching, but he cranked up the whining as soon as they started. Dean was always a softie for Sam's whining, and he knew it. Worst of all, Sam knew it. He knew he couldn't get anything out of Dad with that tone, but it worked miracles on his older brother. And himself was all the shivering, tired, hungry, cold, thirsty and have-to-potty three year old could think about.

Fifteen minutes later, Dean couldn't believe he'd been wrangled into this. But at least he had his jacket back. Sorta. Sam was bundled into his coat and was in his arms, the sleeves of the jacket tied around Dean's shoulders like one of those stupid new-age baby wraps that hot hippie moms did with their kids. And Sam was no baby. Well, yeah, okay he was a baby, but a _big_ baby. Dean developed a limp, favoring the leg that had been worried by the Black Dog, but that didn't matter much since they were almost home.

Only after twenty minutes did Dean realize he was lost. He didn't want to worry Sam, so he just changed course without stopping. Sam was probably asleep, anyway, if his dead weight was any indication.

After another fifteen minutes, Dean changed course again, ever so slightly. This looked like a shortcut…


	2. Chapter 2

John Winchester had been searching for his boys for three hours. He went out after them immediately upon his return, watching in horror as the tracks—human and canine—were being covered by an ever-thickening layer of snow. Three hours of agony. Three hours was long enough. What ever possessed him to think he could leave a seven-year-old and a three-year-old alone while he and Bobby went on a hunt? Bobby had offered to watch them, even offered to go alone so John could stay with his boys. But they were usually fine. Dean was usually better than this. Dean was usually perfect, at least when it came to looking after his brother.

_And that's what Dean's probably doing_, he assured himself, _right this minute. Whatever else he's doing, he'll be looking after his brother._

"Dean!" John bellowed. "Sammy!"

"Daddy?" The voice sounded worn out, as if it had been crying itself to sleep for three hours, and he wasn't sure he heard it. John's ears focused, as only a hunter's could. That was his youngest.

"Sammy!" he called again. "Sammy, talk to me, boy. Where are you?"

"Here, Daddy." The voice was muffled somewhat, but nearby. John had to keep him talking:

"Sammy, are you okay, son?"

"Yeah." A sniffle. "I'm stuck."

"Don't worry, I'm coming for you. Is your brother there? Where's Dean?"

"He's here. He won't get up."

John's blood froze. He stopped in his tracks for a split second before running to where he heard the voice. Not ten yards away, in the middle of a path, lay his boys. Dean was unconscious and had fallen over his younger brother, whom he held in his arms. Sam was trapped beneath him, but remained warm and alive. Dean, meanwhile, was ashen pale, his lips tinged blue. And there was blood in the snow.

John wanted to faint.

Cold. Cold had to be dealt with first. A faint pulse told him that Dean was alive at least, and he scooped the boys as a single bundle into his arms. Trying to hold them as close to his own warmth as he could, he rushed to the car, calling for Bobby. Back at the Impala, he deposited the boys, Sam still attached to and on top of Dean, in the passenger side and reached over to start the car. He hadn't had the heat up full blast this winter yet, but he did it now. Calling out for Bobby, he eased himself beneath his boys and shut the door.

With fingers fumbling from fear and chill, John struggled with the knotted coat, spilling a weeping, shivering Sammy onto his lap. Sam clung to him of his own volition, and after a cursory glance John decided he was all right: no sign of hypothermia or injury. Dean, however, was a different story.

Aside from his horribly mangled chest—though the wound was not dangerously deep, it had bled a great deal—he was very definitely hypothermic, beyond shivering. He wasn't bleeding, but John believed this was due more to cold than natural cauterization. John unzipped his coat and pulled his eldest close to his chest, trying to avoid the urge to rub his arms and legs. Instead he checked his extremities for frostbite, finding no signs.

Bobby slid into the driver's seat. He assessed the situation for a moment before: "Need anything, John?"

"I need you to step on it," John said, not looking at him.

Nodding, Bobby threw the Impala into gear and drove back to his place as fast as the icy roads allowed. John sat with Dean held close to him, and Sam clung to him in the crook of his arm, comfortably wedged between John and the car door.

"Dean?" John coaxed, trying not to let his voice break. "Dean, son, can you hear me?"

There was no reply.

Sam sat up, a little desperately. "Dean?" he called, grasping at Dean's jeans in a tiny fist. "Dean, gotta get up! Daddy says to gotta get up!"

This time, Dean gave a pleading groan, and John felt the eyelids pressed against his neck flutter. A few fingers twitched, a good sign, and he gave a small shiver, the pain of which caused him to whimper.

"Easy, son, that's it. Stay with me. I got you, okay?"

Dean took a deep, labored breath: "S-Sam-my?"

"He's here, Dean. You're all right, now, son. All right."

Dean had meant to say, _I brought Sammy back, Dad, aren't you proud? That's what matters, right?_ but that was way more than he had energy to say. At least Dad didn't sound too mad. And he was _warm_ now, thank God, what else mattered? At least, he was getting warmer. He wanted to sleep. He wasn't sure if he was allowed to sleep. He wasn't sure he even had a choice…

Bobby pulled the Impala as close to the door as he could manage. "Hang on, John," he said, pulling the key from the ignition and hopping out the door. "I'll get Sam."

Sam, who had cried himself to sleep by now, was easily scooped up in one arm, leaving the other free to get the door. Careful not to jostle Dean, John brought him inside and upstairs into the room the boys shared. While he worked on getting Dean's shirt off, Bobby, still carrying Sam, returned with the first aid kit and electric blankets. Laying Sam down bundled in one of these, Bobby left to make some cocoa in case the boys woke to drink it. John placed one of the heated blankets beneath Dean and worked to clean the chest wounds.

At this pain, Dean hissed awake, flinching almost upright: "Hurts, Daddy," he whined, eyes closed tightly.

John grimaced. Dean had _never_ called him "Daddy," not since the fire. "I know, son. Easy. Be brave for me, okay?"

Dean was shivering steadily now, but this was a good sign: "Wh-where's Sammy?"

"Right there next to you, don't worry."

As Dean nodded and began to drift off again, Bobby returned with the cocoa. "I, uh, put a little somethin' extra in, to help 'em sleep," Bobby said, nodding especially at Dean, whose jaw was clenched in quiet agony. John nodded gratefully. "Can you make a strong one?"

"Yeah. Hang on a sec."

"Dean?" John said, lifting up Dean's head. "Dean, wake up. I need you to drink something, son. It'll get you warm. Hot cocoa. The way Bobby makes it. Sound good, huh?"

Dean nodded faintly and allowed himself to be fed a thermos-capful of the beverage. When he finished, his cheeks were still pale but the blue had left his lips, and he drifted into a deeper, morphine-induced sleep. John finished bandaging the wounds on his chest and ankle quickly. Finally he laid another heated blanket over the top of Dean's body and tucked it close around him.

Bobby had gone. John sat on the edge of the bed, his hands resting on his boys. _God, that was close._ It still was close, if Dean didn't pull through. John shivered now, and felt like vomiting, and a few tears burst from his eyes before he pulled himself together. After a moment and a few deep breaths, he thought he was all right. _They're all right, now, Mary. Thank God._

He looked up at a commotion at the door. Bobby was wrestling a rocker through the door. Another blanket was thrown over his shoulder and a flask was in his teeth. John stood up to help.

"Need anything else?" Bobby asked, after he'd gotten John settled. "I'll get some more blankets for the boys, but I assume you want to be with 'em."

John nodded. "Thanks, Bobby. Thank you."

Bobby shrugged, nodded, flashed him a gruff smile.

A moment later, sitting alone in the warm, dim room, listening to the steady breathing of his two sons, John took a rare moment to sit and be grateful for what he had, however little it was.


	3. Chapter 3

"Y-you mean you're not m-m-mad?" The seven-year-old was shocked.

John sighed.

Dean wished he'd never asked such a stupid question. Not until he was well enough to handle a beating if it came to it, at least.

"No, Dean," he said, sadly. "I'm mad. I'm mad you didn't call me before going out after your brother. I'm mad you brought the .22 revolver instead of the Tanfoglio _Witness_ I left. I'm mad you were sloppy enough to let yourself get hurt, and then get lost in a single square mile of woods you know better than that. I'm not too pleased that you ran around lost instead of squatting down and building a fire to keep yourself warm. I'm mad you didn't think to bring along Sam's jacket, or any supplies, or even lock the door to Uncle Bobby's house."

Dean stared sullenly at the bedspread, nodding faintly.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, boy," his father ordered.

Dean looked up sharply: _Shit, _Dean thought._ "Boy" was about a thousand times worse than "son."_ He was in _trouble_…

John frowned. "You killed the Black Dog, and that's something, but that was just lucky. Having to get close enough to kill it that it can get you, too, is not the sign of a good hunter. That's the sign of a dead one."

Dean wasn't crying. He knew that would only make it worse.

John sighed, and took a deep breath. He drew a hand over his eyes and Dean flinched, ever so slightly, bracing himself. "I am, however," John began slowly, "_very_ proud of you for looking after your brother like you did."

Dean blinked, wondering how much morphine he was on, exactly. _That_ came out of friggen left field.

"Least you got that right."

Next to him, Sam shifted in his sleep, warm against Dean's frigid body. This was fine. Fine, he told himself. Dean exhaled, shakily relieved and shocked. Everything was fine now. Dean felt like bizarrely as if he'd gotten away with murder. Dad could clock him six ways from Sunday now and he wouldn't care. He deserved it, for the other stuff. For being stupid in other ways. But the one thing he'd aimed to do right he'd got right. That was what mattered.

_Least I got you right,_ he told Sam, and then he fell asleep.


End file.
